<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Shadowman by Ameraka</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613126">Shadowman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameraka/pseuds/Ameraka'>Ameraka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:43:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameraka/pseuds/Ameraka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom, a young CIA agent, just gets back to America after being interrogated by a Russian spy, and he runs into neo-Nazi hostage takers in the airport terminal. - A snippet from my lonnng mostly untyped novel I wrote from ages 13-18. I wrote this probably when I was 15 in 2000 or so</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shadowman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>    The clouds flew in wispy cotton-white currents, revealing patches of the terrain below. To the left, a huge cumulous cloud loomed high above the rest. The afternoon sun shone on its billows and curls, creating the illusion of a nuclear explosion frozen in time.</p><p> </p><p> Tom leaned back to watch the clouds. He could lie here like this all day.</p><p> </p><p> The reason he felt this way, he realized, was that the sedative that hadn't quite worn off yet, and neither had the morphine, both of which he didn't think he needed anymore. It had been two whole days since Sierra had rescued him. Then again, two days was not very long to recover considering what he'd been through. It was surprising that he had been released from the hospital this early. Bill expected his agents to be superhuman…He had an idea from the tone in Bill's voice from his brief call that Tom would be resuming duty almost immediately. That didn't give him much time for recovery. Not even much of a chance to get re-acclimated to America.</p><p> </p><p> Yes, he was glad to be returning to America. It was his home. Where he'd been born, where he had lived for the past twenty years of his life. Except for Canada once, this was the first time he'd been away from it. Now that he was returning, he realized how much he'd missed it. How long had he been away?  Since July 17th...twenty days ago. Not too long, but long enough. It had seemed like years.</p><p> </p><p> It was ironic that the job he'd taken because he loved his country was exactly what tore him away from it. It was also ironic that by being faithful on his job he had almost been killed---and then that, in turn, had caused him to return to the United States.</p><p> </p><p>   Tom had been through quite an ordeal. At least, his mind and body told him quite vehemently so. But the few others involved—including Bill--had treated it as if it was no big deal. Like being captured after almost being blown up in a bomb, interrogated by draconian Russian intelligence officials, going without food for who knew how long in a cell, and having your arm nearly torn off your body, was an everyday occurrence. Tom had only been on this team a year, and this was his first time off the sidelines and into the field, but it was already clear they played by different rules. Their behavior contradicted anything he had experienced before. With Bill it seemed almost like it didn’t matter that he had escaped or not as long as the information had escaped with him. Well, even in the cell he had contemplated the fact that Agents are more expendable than Information, but he had at least expected someone to be glad that he was alive.    </p><p> </p><p>  He was certainly glad to be alive.</p><p> </p><p> He wondered, casually, what his return to America had in store for him. Bill, for the sake of almighty Security, had told him next to nil on the phone. The most information he’d received was, ironically, from Sierra, though hers was mostly intelligent conjecture. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wasn’t going to spend all week recuperating. All his recuperation had already been completed at the Russian hospital. Perhaps that was all he needed, perhaps his incident hadn’t been as big an ordeal as it felt like.</p><p> </p><p> Sierra herself had treated the entire incident with as much anxiety as she treated most things in life. However, she had showed concern over his injuries. Coming from her, he took it as genuine sympathy, and the most sympathy he’d received.</p><p> </p><p>The last time he’d seen her was at the airport an ocean ago. Disguised in a wide-brimmed hat and glasses that concealed her eyes, she had approached him covertly, kissed his cheek, and said in her cryptic, liquid way, "Dasvidanya, Shadowman. Watch out for Russians. Don't be surprised if you see me again someday. It may be in the place you least expect." And then with a subtle wave, she'd vanished into the crowd.</p><p> </p><p> He wondered whether he would ever see her again--that enigmatic Chinese operative who had saved his life.</p><p> </p><p> The call for imminent landing and safety procedures echoed throughout the plane, interrupting his train of thought. Soon the plane was angling down toward the Baltimore airport.</p><p> </p><p> Suddenly the voice of the captain announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have been having--difficulties--contacting the control tower. We have everything under control. However, the man who replied, though he was authorized, was not the regular official. Apparently, something happened to the original flight controller, which is not clear yet. I do not have the details--but it is clear that <em>something</em> has happened at the Baltimore airport.  It is most likely minor technical difficulties. I just would like to tell you--be prepared.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you, everyone." The intercom clicked off. Though the pilot had tried to sound reassuring, an undercurrent of uncertainty had threaded through his voice. Tom wondered what could possibly be going on, and whether he should be alarmed.</p><p> </p><p> The plane rolled to a stop on the runway. Tom followed instructions and filed out with the rest of the passengers. He carried a single brown suitcase; the rest of his luggage would be arriving later. In front and behind him, people conversed in hushed, bewildered tones.</p><p> </p><p> Once outside on the pavement, before anyone reached the inside of the terminal Tom spotted a group running toward them. This was rather odd in itself, but as they grew closer Tom could see these people were attired in--could it biohazard suits? One of the seven called the procession to a halt before the group converged near the pilot and copilot, within a yard or two from Tom. And fortunately, within his earshot as well.</p><p> </p><p> "What is going on here?" asked the pilot.  </p><p><br/>
"Weren't you informed?" said one of the yellow-suited men. "We ordered Control to reroute all incoming planes."</p><p> </p><p> "Control instructed us to land. They have auxiliary personnel up there. Why? What is wrong?"</p><p> </p><p> The man turned to discuss something with his comrades. The official turned again to the pilot. "We have a serious problem here. Close to a half hour ago, we received a nine-one-one call from this airport, the unidentified man who called indicating that everyone inside the terminal was collapsing. This person stopped his call before we could receive any more information. As soon as we arrived, we concluded that it was an attack of either biological or chemical nature. Now we are quite certain that it was a chemical weapons attack. We’d told the control tower to reroute all incoming planes because of the hazard--and it appears as if they were successful--until now. It is possible that the control tower was also attacked by whoever attacked the terminal, and that caused the misinformation."</p><p> </p><p> "You don't know who it was?"</p><p> </p><p> "No, we know very little about it. We don't even know what chemical agent was used--we don't have access to the information about a weapon that produces this type of symptoms. We contacted the FBI but they haven't responded yet.  We've been on our toes ever since we arrived --we're short on personnel and the doctors inside can hardly cope with all their patients. Also, one of them is the Vice President’s wife who arrived on Air Force Two just before the attack along with two other important officials--whoever they are."</p><p> </p><p> His phone bleeped. He grabbed it and slapped it to his ear. "Jansky.” His eyes widened before he regained his composure. He flipped his phone back to his belt.</p><p> </p><p> "It appears," he said, "that we have a hostage situation on our hands."</p><p> </p><p> "A <em>hostage</em> situation?" echoed the copilot.</p><p> </p><p> "Yes. According to the officer I talked to, a group of men with rifles appeared out of nowhere and took the place hostage. Only two more of our men are in there and I don't know what they can do. We're not fully equipped to deal with this type of situation."</p><p> </p><p>“You contacted the FBI?” said the pilot.</p><p> </p><p> “Yes, and so far they’ve done nothing whatsoever to assist us. I can’t call in any more of our boys--no use jeopardizing any more lives for no reason.”</p><p> </p><p> “You could call someone else, you know,” suggested a yellow-clad policewoman.</p><p> </p><p> “Like who I’d like to know? The National Guard? The NSA?” scoffed Jansky.</p><p> </p><p> “That wouldn’t be a bad idea. We need some help.”</p><p> </p><p> “Yeah we do. It would be nice, though, to know what we’re dealing with before we call someone. The FBI’s the one we need. But, yes, we’d take any kind of assistance at this point.</p><p> </p><p> “You wouldn’t happen to have any government officials as passengers, would you?”</p><p> </p><p> “I am with the government,” said a voice behind Tom with a foreign accent. <em>Russian.</em> Ice tingled down Tom’s spine.</p><p> </p><p> “Who are you?”</p><p> </p><p> “I am with the Russian embassy.”</p><p> </p><p> “We would prefer someone with the American government--with all due respect, sir.”</p><p> </p><p> Another voice, female, further down the line. “I know someone with our government.”</p><p> </p><p>The voice…Tom knew that voice…</p><p> </p><p> “Who are you?” said Jansky.</p><p> </p><p> “It doesn’t matter who I am--it matters who I know.” The voice was closer this time. Smooth, confident…</p><p> </p><p> “Well then, who do you know?”</p><p> </p><p> “One of your passengers--Michael Jonston.” That was Tom’s alias…</p><p> </p><p> The speaker stepped into view. She was in disguise, as her voice had been, but it was the unmistakable form of Sierra Vang. It seemed almost impossible that she had gotten on the plane-- there had been no time before liftoff--but somehow, for some reason, she had followed him back to America.</p><p> </p><p> “Mr. Michael Jonston! Please identify yourself!” yelled the pilot.</p><p> </p><p> What was Sierra up to? Tom was supposed to be returning to America as silently as possible; she was pushing him into the spotlight. Plus, he had just been through a trying ordeal and was not up to negotiating with terrorists or whatever they had in mind for him and this was neither his area of expertise nor his concern. His job was incriminating Russian spies--and, currently, keeping away from them. He did not want or need to step out into the open. But he had learned to trust Sierra’s judgment over the past several weeks, and besides, by now it would be more suspicious not to come forward.</p><p> He stepped out of the line.</p><p> </p><p> “I’m Michael Jonston,” he said, striding over to the small group off to the side of the long restless line of passengers. He glanced at Sierra, who winked at him.</p><p> </p><p> “Do you know something of the situation, Mr. Jonston?”</p><p> </p><p> “I only know that there was some kind of attack inside the terminal, a chemical weapon if I’m not mistaken, and now the terrorists have taken everyone inside hostage.”</p><p> </p><p> “That’s essentially as much as we know. Except for the fact that one of the victims and now one of the hostages is the wife of the Vice President.</p><p> </p><p>“So what part of the government are you with?”</p><p> </p><p> That sounded, to Tom, startlingly similar to Nevsky’s main repetitive line. And if that Russian ambassador was something more than he professed, and was conveniently eavesdropping-- He decided to play it safe.</p><p> </p><p> “It doesn’t really matter who I am with; right now it only matters what I can do for you.”</p><p> </p><p> “Normally I’d argue with you, but we’re desperate. What can you do for us? You do have an idea of what to do, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p> No, not really. He felt a dull panic rising in his throat. How did he get into this mess anyway? Had Sierra gone crazy--dangling his name in front of a possible Russian spy--nominating him, a mere trainee, for an enormous duty like this?</p><p> </p><p> Call Bill. Bill should know what to do. He might send some backup. He probably knew about this anyway.</p><p> </p><p> But maybe he should get an idea of what exactly he was up against first. Still, he hardly wanted to go ahead alone--he wouldn’t have been assigned to a case yet unless he was able to handle this kind of thing, but it would still be nice to have an experienced partner. …<em>Sierra.</em>  Of course.</p><p> </p><p> He glanced around for her, but she had vanished again. <em>Convenient</em>, he thought.<em> Oh, well. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.</em></p><p> </p><p> He assumed command of the mission. Of course, he had had to show several credentials, but the police officers were remarkably trusting in his claims of authority. His first plan was simple enough: scout out the area and discover the situation without being seen.</p><p> </p><p> Before he could commence his operation, Sierra approached him. He wanted to ask her what the deal was, but she didn’t give him the chance. He should have expected as much from her. “I will check out what happened at the control tower,” she said. “I’ll provide a report ASAP.” And then she jogged off toward the tower.</p><p> </p><p> Tom and his ‘subordinates’ headed toward the terminal while the crew and the policewoman took care of the passengers and attempted to make emergency arrangements. Once they arrived at the terminal, they spread out. Tom, somewhat uncomfortable in command, accepted it as his duty--as long as he had it, he’d make the most of it. He flattened against the wall and turned to peer into the terminal window. </p><p> People lay strewn on the floor in a relatively close group. Tom counted around fifty, and when they moved it was with the strained, limited motion of pain. Tom could just make out, from his vantage point, blood at some of their lips. A scattering of men and women, clad in the same yellow suits as the policemen, knelt beside certain people, attending to them as well as possible. Tom assumed these were the paramedics.</p><p> </p><p> Between the bodies were arbitrary pathways and in these pathways paced armed men in military-like suits, their rifles poised at their sides, as if the poisoned hostages or the scattering of doctors could do anything to resist their takeover. There were at least twelve  guards, as far as he could see.</p><p> </p><p> Tom wondered where these men had come from, and what they wanted. Why they had attacked the Baltimore airport with a chemical agent and taken the place hostage and what they intended to do next. It was logical to assume that they were terrorists, and if they were, they would probably soon start demanding something.</p><p> </p><p> Tom called the policemen and told them what he saw; they confirmed that there were at least fifty more victims on the other side of the terminal, along with more armed guards. And then Tom told them what he was about to do--contact his superior and call for assistance.</p><p> </p><p> Demand assistance. They needed to do something for these people; they probably needed a hospital. This was a critical situation and Tom found it outrageous that no one had answered their request for help. Terrorists taking hostages was serious business--usually it would get all the attention it could. It was strange that the only people on this were the Baltimore police. A tinge of suspicion began to rise in his mind. Of what he wasn’t quite sure.</p><p> </p><p> He dialed the director of the Agency. It rang about ten times before he answered.</p><p> </p><p> “Reissman,” said Bill.</p><p> </p><p> “This is Tom Richardson.”</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p> “Hello Tom. Are you at the airport?”</p><p> </p><p> “Yes, I am. Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”</p><p>
  
</p><p> “The fact the Night Hawkes have the place hostage, is, I believe, the latest development.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Since you obviously know what's going on, would you mind telling me what you know? Did you know that the terrorists would take the terminal hostage? Do you know why no one has responded to any of our distress calls? And is my being on this flight merely coincidental?" He should have known better than to border so close to insubordination but the questions burst out from him.</p><p> </p><p> He expected Bill to proceed with a reprimand but to his surprise the director sounded amused. "Hold on, Tom. One thing at a time. Yes, I knew the Night Hawkes would attack. I didn't know where, but as soon as we received word, we knew this was it."</p><p> </p><p> "So you wouldn't know anything about why we haven't received any assistance, would you?"</p><p> </p><p> "We did not wish anyone to respond. It was we who called the FBI and told them to ignore the call."</p><p> </p><p> <em>"Why?"</em></p><p>
  
</p><p> "We wanted to wait until you arrived. This was for reasons you need not know, except for the crucial fact that you are a Secret Security Agent. The FBI was about as happy as you are, but we could not tell them why. From now on we want the CIA to have a monopoly on Secret cases. For reasons I'm sure you're aware. We didn't want to send anyone over until you, the SSA, had taken command. Most of the others are currently working on other cases."</p><p> </p><p> "How did you know I would assume command?"</p><p> </p><p> "We had confidence in your abilities. But we also had insurance."</p><p> </p><p> "Insurance?"</p><p> </p><p> "Sierra."</p><p> </p><p> "You contacted her?"</p><p> </p><p> "Yes." He didn't bother to ask why he’d contacted her instead of him. Tom hadn't even known that Bill knew Sierra.</p><p> </p><p>    Tom couldn't help but be a little indignant toward Bill. Didn't these people matter? Was the Secret more important than human lives?</p><p> </p><p> "Does this mean you won't answer our plea for help? Need I even ask for reinforcements?"</p><p> </p><p> "I said that<em> we </em>want a monopoly on this case, Tom. That means it doesn't matter who we send--as long as they are CIA, and as long as a Secret agent is in command. I will send several agents over there to assist you. I am placing you in command."</p><p> </p><p> "But are you sure that's wise? The Russian case--"</p><p> </p><p> "I am confident in your abilities, Mr. Richardson. I also expect you to carry them out without question. Is that clear?"</p><p> </p><p> "Yes---sir." He knew when Bill started calling him Mr. Richardson that he was meant to be taken seriously.</p><p> </p><p> “Now, here’s what I want you to do: First, make sure the Secret is not involved. I am sending as many SSAs as possible, but some may not be, so be careful.</p><p> </p><p> "Secondly, make sure security is maintained at all costs.</p><p> </p><p> "Thirdly,  get those people out of there, and to a hospital. Do not make it your mission to capture the terrorists, not even the leader, if he’s there, but do not hesitate to take down any of them if they threaten any one. The victims are no doubt in need of medical attention and some may die without treatment during a prolonged hostage situation. They could also be killed if a strike team goes in there. If anything crucial happens, contact me. Otherwise, you have Sierra. Do what you have to do, Tom.</p><p> </p><p> “Oh, yes, one more thing. Maria Steinberg’s safety is in your hands. The other passengers--even Secretary Diaz and Senator O’ Brian-- are more expendable than she is.”</p><p> </p><p> Characteristically, the line was cut off before Tom thought the conversation was over.</p><p> His phone sang. “Yes.”</p><p> “It’s me,” said Sierra. She sounded breathless, an unusual occurrence.</p><p> “What happened?”</p><p> “The terrorists had attacked the control tower, knocking out the officials there. Not only that, but it was they who answered the pilot’s call for a reply. Apparently one of them has aviation experience.”</p><p> “Why would they want someone to land? Wouldn’t that create more of a problem?”</p><p>“I believe they wanted a distraction so fewer policemen would be present when they took the airport hostage. What they didn’t expect that there’d be a CIA agent on the flight.”</p><p> “Where are the terrorists? How many were there?”</p><p> “There were only two. They’re now locked securely in a certain storage shed. They’ll sleep for hours and when they wake up they won’t remember a thing.  They'll be in the hands of the police by then of course.</p><p> “You’ll also be glad to know the Russian ‘ambassador’ wasn’t after you.”</p><p> “How do you know that?”</p><p> “Because he was after me. He tried to capture me to learn where I'd taken 'their' secret.”</p><p> “Are you okay?”</p><p> “Of course. Aren’t you?”</p><p> “Yes. What happened to the Russian?”</p><p> “It appears as though the Night Hawkes shot him while he was heroically trying to recapture the control tower. His agency will be comforted by the fact that he died with honor.”</p><p> “I see,” said Tom.</p><p> “I’ll be over there to assist. Over and out, darling.”</p><p> Tom contacted the policemen and told them several of his associates would arrive soon, but they wouldn’t sit around and do nothing while they waited. They had to walk a fine line--the terrorists had the place heavily guarded, they couldn’t just barrel in there. The hostages’ safety hung in the balance.</p><p> Tom began by running over to the front to check out the other guards, tall, burly men with heavy rifles. They looked German; the Night Hawkes were mostly German, he recalled. Some kind of neo-Nazis. <em>So this is what Shana is up against,</em> he thought.</p><p> Tom could not do much himself; he could only use a handgun because of his arm, and anything resembling hand-to-hand combat was also out of the question. He could, however, do things like directing and scouting--he could also call the terrorists and ask what they intended to accomplish by this.</p><p> Which he did. “Hello, is this--Frank Hawkes?”</p><p> “This is the Fuhrer.” Fuhrer? Oh, boy. “It’s about time. These people are going to start dying off. The longer you wait…”  The voice, though British with a German undertone,   reminded him of Nevsky--who was still a freshly branded memory on his mind.</p><p> “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”</p><p> “What do we want?” Hawkes laughed. “Have you called the CIA? The FBI?”</p><p> “They haven’t responded yet.” Tom decided to play it safe.</p><p> Hawkes’ hesitation made Tom think he didn’t know what to make of that. The terrorist leader didn’t want tons of opposition, but he also wanted a lot of acknowledgement.</p><p> Underestimation could be an enemy or an ally. This could play to his advantage.</p><p> “They have not responded? I would think the life of the Vice President’s wife mattered to them. They must be sending reinforcements. Scheming. Tell me the truth--have they not contacted you?”</p><p> “No. They must have entrusted the responsibility to us.”</p><p> “The Baltimore police? I don’t think so. Something is wrong here. Very well. Perhaps we haven’t made ourselves clear enough. Perhaps the Vice President himself will listen to us. I’ve heard he cares for his wife very much. I want you to call him, officer, and tell him if he does not comply, his wife will die. I want you to get the attention of everyone you can--alert the world that the Night Hawkes are here! Soon the world will know of us and witness our power. Get Steinberg on the line. Now, bitte.”</p><p>“I can’t--I don’t even know what you want him to comply to.”</p><p> “I want him--in exchange for her.”</p><p> “You’re crazy! He would never concede to that!”</p><p> “You don’t know him like I do. He’s one of these Christian fanatics. He’d give up his life for her. Now call him, or I will personally kill ten of the hostages! Do it, now!”</p><p> “Okay, okay, I will.” Tom did his best to sound shaken, which wasn’t hard to do. He felt like he was giving in too easily, but he had no choice. Anyway, let them think he was a young, weak  police officer. Character judgment didn’t seem to be Hawkes’ strong point; Tom, though he didn’t 'know' Vice President Steinberg, did not think he would give in to the terrorist’s demands that quickly. In which case it would be his and his subordinates’ duty to protect Mrs. Steinberg.</p><p> He called Bill, who (surprisingly) agreed with him that he should contact the Vice President. Just as he hung up Sierra appeared beside him. His nerves were calmed by her iron steady presence.</p><p> Bill made sure Tom got through to the Vice President, who happened to be in New York, and soon Tom found himself on the line with the U.S. second-in-command. He recalled a time about a year ago when he'd been just about as awed to meet the Director of the Agency.</p><p> But this, too, was about as much a time for pleasantries as that had been.</p><p> "Steinberg," said one of America's top executive officials pleasantly. He did not apparently know about the situation. Strange. Normally he would have known that his wife had been attacked the moment it had happened. It was all because of the extremely esoteric Secret.</p><p> "This is Thomas Richardson." Should he have used his alias? he wondered too late.</p><p> "Yes, Mr. Richardson?"</p><p> Tom swallowed the lump from his throat. This was more difficult than he thought it would be. How could he--? He composed himself.</p><p> "I'm calling because of your wife."</p><p> "Because of Maria? Is she okay?" Tom could hear the concern in his voice. Tom was probably conveying some himself.</p><p> "No, I'm afraid she's not."</p><p>  A heartbeat of a silence. "It wasn't the plane, was it?"</p><p> "No, it wasn't the plane. It landed safely. But--as soon as she arrived, there was a--terrorist attack. "</p><p> "Dear God...Is she--is she still alive?"  </p><p> "Yes, sir. She is. But she may be in critical condition."</p><p> "<em>May</em> be? You don't know?"</p><p> "No."</p><p> "How much do you know?"</p><p> "The terrorists first attacked the terminal with a chemical agent. Then they took the terminal hostage. That's the basics of what we know happened. "</p><p> "When did this happen?"</p><p> "Hmm ...forty-five to fifty minutes ago."</p><p> "What is your role in this, Mr. Richardson?"</p><p> "I--" He glanced at Sierra who raised her eyebrow and frowned. "I'm not at liberty to say, sir. I can only say that I have your wife's best interests in mind, and I will do everything within my power to get her out safely."</p><p> "I trust you, Mr. Richardson." Tom could detect a deep concern, and yet an immense trust behind his voice.</p><p> "Have these terrorists made any demands?"</p><p> "They--they want--you, in exchange for Maria, your wife."</p><p> "What? Why?"</p><p> "They didn't say. But if you refuse to comply, they said…They said that they would kill her. But that would only be as a last resort. They'll probably kill as many of the other hostages as they can first, in order to get you there."</p><p> "How many hostages are there?"</p><p> "Around one hundred."</p><p> "I will come as soon as I can, Mr. Richardson, and exchange myself for her."  Tom was taken aback, stunned, at his immediate decisiveness.  (Apparently those he was with shared Tom's sentiment, for Tom heard a burst of more or less dismayed and startled voices in the background.)  __Other plan?  A way out… Not just fatalistic. +++</p><p> "I advise you not to do that, sir. You are the Vice President of the United States, and these are ruthless terrorists-"</p><p> "I appreciate your concern. But I believe I do reserve the right to make my own personal decisions. I also realize that you believe this is an impulsive, perhaps irresponsible decision, but it isn't. As the Vice President, Maria's husband, but most importantly as a Christian, I am fully prepared to give up my life--not only for her, but for anyone. If my death would save the life of one person, I would readily do so."</p><p> We have a noble vice president, thought Tom.  "I appreciate how you feel, but there's no reason to rush into anything. I'm sure you realize that giving in to their demands would be playing into their hands, and besides that, the best thing to do in these situations is to so the opposite of what they want."</p><p> "You have a point there."</p><p> "There is also a matter of national security in the balance, and we have to work within its parameters. I can't tell you the nature of it, but I can tell you the nature of our plan."</p><p> "Which is?"</p><p> "Well, first of all, we want as little publicity as possible."</p><p> "The national security thing?"</p><p> "Also simply because publicity is exactly what they want. They want the world to see the terror they can create--for their purpose of taking over the nation."   ---</p><p> He told the Vice President the basic plan and whatever else Tom felt was imperative that he know.</p><p> Then he called the terrorist leader. "Fuhrer here."</p><p> "This is Jonston."</p><p> "So that's your name. You called the VP?"</p><p> "If you mean the Vice President, yes, I did."</p><p> "And?"</p><p> "He's coming."</p><p> "I thought so. But if he does not arrive within an hour, hostages will start dying at a surprising rate."</p><p> "But--he's in New York--it'll take him at least--"</p><p> "Nevertheless, it will show that I am serious. The United States will soon know we are not to be trifled with. Good day, Mr. Jonston."</p><p> Hawkes hung up. Tom swore. "Did you hear that man?" he said to Sierra, anger burning inside of him.</p><p> "Yes, I did," replied Sierra. "We cannot allow him to kill one of them--it'd be a triumph to him. If we're gonna act at all, it's gotta be within an hour."</p><p> "That'll be before the Vice President arrives."</p><p> "Yes, before he can exchange himself. The Vice President's capture would be a  huge victory for the Night Hawkes."-----</p><p> "Would you happen to know anything about the Night Hawkes you're not telling me?"</p><p> "I might.  I make it my business to know everything I can about all my cases."</p><p> "Is this your case?"</p><p> “It is for now. As soon as I became involved I adopted it.”</p><p> He contacted the officers and told them the Vice President was on his way and they needed to get the hostages to safety within an hour. They could take no chances. Make no mistakes. One hundred people (including their relatives, who had been contacted and told ‘everything is under control’) were counting on them.</p><p> Tom set up a command center out in the parking lot; from there he directed his men. He sent most of them out to spy on the terrorists inside the terminal.  He suspected it was difficult to get any clear view; every door was guarded.</p><p> The CIA agents arrived within ten minutes. Only one of them he recognized-the Secret agent Amy, who he knew quite well.</p><p> The arrival and introductions took another precious five minutes. Then Tom got an idea. Perhaps he could  exchange himself for the hostages, at least some of them. If he was inside, he could keep an eye on the terrorists and perhaps dissuade them from doing anything to the remaining hostages. He could also wire himself so that the agents outside could hear what was going on. Most importantly, if his plan worked, at least some of the hostages would be out of the danger zone and could be rushed off to the hospital.</p><p> He revealed this idea to his agents. At first they tried to talk him out of it, but since he was so adamant, and it did make sense, they consented. To Tom’s surprise, Sierra was also on his side.</p><p> He contacted the terrorists once again. “Hello, Jonston,” said the sardonic voice of Hawkes. “What do you want?”</p><p> “I would like to propose a deal.”</p><p> “A deal. Well, if it’s about Steinberg, I still want him, and I will still kill ten hostages if he does not arrive within the allotted time.”</p><p> (Huh, that was another thing Hawkes and Nevsky had in common-the casual way they talked about murdering people.)</p><p> “It’s not about that. I would like to exchange myself for all the hostages -except ,of course, for Maria.”</p><p> “You’re joking, Jonston!” He swore severely. Tom flinched. Then Hawkes’ voice went back to its calm confidence. "No, no, I can't do that. That would be unacceptable."</p><p> Tom tried again. "How about me for all of the hostages except the second lady, the secretary, and the senator?"</p><p> "Still no. Try again."</p><p> "How about everyone except for the passengers of Air Force Two?"</p><p> "I still can't see why a paltry police officer would be worth more than several hostages. You are wasting my time, Jonston. I will hang up unless you can convince me that you might be worth something."</p><p> Tom, filled with purpose, taut with determination, would not concede that easily. A thought crossed his mind that he should call Bill and ask if he should do this. But he knew there was no time.</p><p> "I am not a police officer. I am with the government."</p><p> Hawkes snorted disdainfully. "I should’ve assumed you people wouldn't stay away. And here you've been lying to me this whole time! I should--" He laughed--" I should take you in exchange--so I could kill you for your deceit! What part of the government?"</p><p> "The Department of Defense."</p><p> "What--organization?"</p><p> "The CIA." He hoped this wasn't a mistake. At least Hawkes was a mere terrorist and not a Russian. "I am a top official," he lied. "An indispensable agent. I would be a valuable hostage."</p><p> "Indeed. Very well Jonston, I believe I will take you for fifty hostages. You might be worth fifty--though I do believe I'm being generous. No tricks either, Jonston. No wires, no weapons, nothing. Be here in two minutes. And don't forget, if you're lying about anything, I will shoot fifty hostages instead of giving them to you, and I will keep you for interrogation before you experience a long torturous death." Tom flinched when the phone clicked. The mention of torture conjured up images from a past not long deceased of Nevsky's harsh face looming over him. He did not want to go through that again. His whole soul protested it. It didn't matter whether it was an emotionless, methodical Russian secret agent or a hot-headed half-insane Nazi terrorist.</p><p>
  <em>How much would he have to sacrifice for his country?</em>
</p><p> Vice president Steinberg had been prepared to sacrifice his life.</p><p> But he was wasting time thinking about it. Thinking of the Russians only distracted him.</p><p> Sierra provided him with one of her "undetectable" bugs before he strode toward the terminal.  </p><p> As soon as he arrived at the door, a guard took him into custody, while simultaneously the paramedics and doctors began the painstaking process of hefting the patients to the just-arriving ambulances. Terrorists watched them with an eagle eye. As soon as all the patients were outside, he was brought to the area in the middle of the terminal where the remaining hostages were.</p><p> A  guard prodded him through a living aisle to an open space in the center.  The terrorists looked rather bored. Vigilant, but bored. Most were standing, still keeping watch; when he walked in, they looked at him with new interest.   Hawkes himself sat on one of the airline desks, which would have looked ridiculous if this wasn't such a dire situation, and Hawkes hadn't such an air of haughty, supreme self-confidence and authority.</p><p> "So here is our heroic Mr. Jonston. Or should I say, Agent Jonston," said Hawkes as Tom walked up to him.   Tom regarded the terrorist leader for a moment. He was blond, unlike the real fuhrer but according to the Nazi physical epitome.  It was cut in something of a Hitleresque style, graying at the sides, with a mustache. His eyes were deep set and ice blue beneath sharply etched eyebrows. His nose was aquiline, matching the rest of his craggy features.  He was medium build, muscular, wearing a tan uniform reminiscent of a Nazi soldier's, complete with high black boots. He wore a knife and a pistol, and a rifle lay near his hand on the table. He exuded self-confidence and superiority, as if he was the leader of Germany. Tom sensed that this man was dangerous; perhaps--though in his own way--just as dangerous as the Russian rebels.</p><p>   "I thought you'd be older," Hawkes remarked at last.</p><p> "Appearances can be deceiving."</p><p> "How well I know. Please, make yourself comfortable."</p><p> "I prefer to stand."</p><p> "And I prefer that you sit. Phillippe, if you'll provide our honored guest with a chair?"</p><p> "Floor would be better," said the guard behind him, with a thick French accent.</p><p> "Why, we must be more hospitable than that! Besides, it looks like our Mr. Jonston has an injury."</p><p> Phillippe grabbed the chair from behind the desk, pushed over a man with his foot, and set the chair down near Hawkes. Then he shoved Tom onto it. A knife of pain shot through Tom's spine.</p><p> Hawkes eyes turned to Tom's arm, which hung in a sling. "Where did you get that, by the way?"</p><p> "A Russian."</p><p> Hawkes laughed. "You're serious? Those Russians, you never can trust them, can you?"</p><p> <em>How well I know</em>, thought Tom.</p><p> "Would you mind telling me the story?"</p><p> "Yes.”</p><p> Tom took a moment to evaluate his situation.</p><p> The remaining fifty hostages lay on the floor in a rather close space--they had been moved closer together after the others had been cleared out. Ten Night Hawkes were in the room, including Hawkes; the others were outside guarding the entrances. Those inside stood away from the windows where CIA snipers could get at them. Tom looked for Mrs. Steinberg and her party amid the group, searching for the face he'd only seen several times on TV, usually beside her husband. At last he found her, lying in a corner sprawled on the floor with her hand on her forehead. A doctor leaned over her, and several men in business suits lay near her, probably the undersecretary and the senator. One man sat up against the wall; looked like a Secret Service agent. Although he appeared just as ill as the others, he seemed to be deliriously looking around, watching the whole situation, especially Mrs. Steinberg. </p><p> "What kind of chemical agent was used?" asked Tom.</p><p> "You don't know? What kind of Intelligence officer are you?" sneered Hawkes.</p><p> "The exact symptoms are unfamiliar to me."</p><p> Hawkes chuckled. "They should be. It's rather a hybrid thing, designed by some French chemist I believe."</p><p> "Where did you get your chemical from?"</p><p> "What is this, Twenty Questions? Why should I tell you that? But perhaps twenty questions isn't a bad idea. Do you know what the U.S. government would do in exchange for your release? I could threaten to interrogate you unless they hand over--the Capitol."</p><p> "The Capitol?"</p><p> "I'm making this up as I go along kid. Do you know anything that would be worth a Defense secret or so? Maybe you know a Defense secret that I could use that would make you worth fifty hostages."</p><p> Tom was losing ground and he knew it. He had to remain on top of the situation, not let Hawkes take advantage of him.  "I know that you are in possession of a certain secret material that is extremely dangerous. I also know that the U. S. government will not tolerate these attacks against its people. Do you really think you can take down the government this easily? America will never give in to petty terrorist demands!"</p><p>Hawkes, sitting straight up on the edge of the table, stared at him for a moment, face contorted into a sneer, before it broke into a smirk. "On the contrary, I think I will succeed. For three reasons; first, the government is doing nothing at all to stop us, or at least your feeble attempts hardly bother us enough to hinder us in the least. Second, the government is so incompetent that even if it did all it could, it could not stop us, and furthermore, we have the Secret, so that even if the most powerful governments in the world formed an alliance against us, they would be defeated. So it is not us, I would think, who had something to worry about.</p><p> "Now, I fear, it is time for an execution. Vice President Steinberg's time has run out; he obviously doesn't care about his people as much as I thought."</p><p> Tom's heart plummeted. How could it possibly be time already? He hadn't had enough time to think or act. Now what could he do?</p><p> "But you can't do that!"</p><p> "And why not?"</p><p> "The Vice President couldn't possibly have gotten here in an hour. You knew that. Why? Why kill ten innocent people, just because you couldn't possibly get what you asked for?"</p><p> "Because I can." He picked up his rifle, casually tossed it slightly up and then caught it in his hands.</p><p> "Wait <em>Fuehrer please.</em> Please reconsider. These people haven't done anything. You have attacked them --they have done nothing against you or your cause. Leave them out of it. You don't want more blood on your hands."</p><p> "Frankly kid, I don't care how much blood I have on my hands if it furthers the revolution. Besides, you are a CIA officer are you not? What do you care?"</p><p> Tom didn't know exactly what that meant. Besides, he cared, perhaps not as much as he should have. But what if Sierra didn't come through and he did end up dying for them?</p><p>"I do care. These people have families they want to get back to..."</p><p> "You’re breaking my heart, agent. As a matter of fact, I believe I'll be putting them out of their misery."</p><p> “Take me instead," blurted Tom. Inside he was shaking and hoping desperately in the back of his mind that Hawkes would choose not to or the agents would come rescue him at the last minute. He could hardly believe this would be his day to die.</p><p> He stood up and took a step toward the Fuhrer. Stood right in front of the rifle.</p><p> Hawkes regarded him for a moment, a harshness yet amusement in his eyes. "I could kill you," he said. “I could quite easily. But that would be in neither of our best interests; your death would be meaningless, for nothing would stop me from killing them after you lie dead at my feet, and you are too valuable to me. You have information I can use."</p><p> "I will give you information in exchange."</p><p> "I will get that anyway."</p><p> "But I'll save you time by telling you right away."</p><p> "Frankly, it doesn’t matter how long it takes as long as I get it. And I always get what I want. I have said I would kill ten hostages, and I will. I have also had enough of your stalling."</p><p> He cocked his rifle and aimed it at the Secret Service agent, who was an open target over by Maria Steinberg. The agent realized what was happening, and, powerless, watched the terrorist leader with sorrow and resignation written on his face.</p><p> Hawkes raised his finger to the trigger.</p><p> Tom sprang forward, heedless of his useless, carefully set arm. "No!" He felt the cold of the metal and Hawkes' muscular arm as he fought to grab the weapon. They wrestled for a heartbeat before Tom knocked it out of the terrorist's hands. It skidded across the aisle fifteen feet away.</p><p> Hawkes, who had fallen against the desk, was rising. His face livid and twitching with fury, he screamed something in German to his men.</p><p> Two of them, Phillippe and another called Franz complied with his order. Without paying any special attention to Tom's broken arm, they dragged him over behind the desk where there were no hostages. Not to avoid injuring them, but for the purpose of not having anything in the way while they had their fun with Tom. For obviously roughing him up had been included in Hawkes' order. Perhaps they were going to interrogate him. That he dreaded.</p><p> First Phillippe  punched him in the jaw. Tom was thrown back onto the wall. The pain surprised him; he had been relying so much on the morphine, which was probably almost gone by now. Then another picked him up by the collar and slammed him into the opposite wall. It felt like the impact of a freight train. The bruises he had received from Nevsky reawakened and started screaming, especially those across his ribs. He was reliving the nightmare. Suddenly, instead of the dark, roughly shaven face of Phillippe it was dagger-eyed Nevsky looming over him in the dank gray cell. He blinked to rid his eyes of that horrendous vision and when he opened them he could see blood running down his nose. The head wound, which had required seven stitches, had reopened and he could feel a warming tingle creeping into it, then smolder and reel with increasingly sharper jabs.</p><p> He tried to retaliate,   but his head punished him and all he could do was stand on shaky feet, blood dripping from his face, praying to God that his head would stop pounding, and that they would please decide to stop (here he was praying again. Why did he think God would listen to him this time?).</p><p>  Franz's fist flew forward and struck his arm--his broken arm--he thought he felt it crack again. A bullet of ripping pain shot through it like a shockwave, tearing his nerves apart and stunning his brain to a stop. He crashed into the floor, letting loose a cry of agony. Black fire spread across his vision like static. He was aware of nothing but the pain-- except way in the back of his mind he was cringing for the next blow.</p><p> But it never came.</p><p> Somewhere outside the pulsing wall of pain, he heard a cry of surprise. Hawkes. Then shouts. Shouts in German that he could not interpret. Startled groans from the hostages. What was going on?</p><p> A strange hissing sound. Footsteps.</p><p> "Get out of here, now!" screamed Hawkes.</p><p> A spattering of automatic gunshots. Glass breaking.</p><p> A scrambling rush of footsteps and the sound of a door crashing shut.</p><p> Then more voices. <em>Familiar voices</em>. Relief flooded over him, before blackness swallowed him.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>